of volumes, the lowest tier consisting largely of what secondhand booksellers, when invited to purchase, are wont to call ‘tomb-stones’ that is to say, old folios, of no great market value, though good brains and infinite labour went to the making of them.  A great table, at one end of which was a tray with glasses and a water-bottle, occupied the middle of the floor; nearer the fireplace was a small writing-desk.  For pictures little space could be found; but over the mantelpiece hung a fine water-colour, the flood of Tigris and the roofs of Bagdad burning in golden sunset.  Harvey had bought it at the gallery in Pall Mall not long ago; the work of a man of whom he knew nothing; it represented the farthest point of his own travels, and touched profoundly his vague historico-poetic sensibilities.

Three letters lay on the desk.  As soon as he had lit his lamp, and exchanged his boots for slippers, he looked at the envelopes, and chose one addressed in a woman’s hand.  The writer was Mrs. Bennet Frothingham.

’We have only just heard, from Mrs. Carnaby, that you are back in town. Could you spare us tomorrow evening?  It would be so nice of you.  The quartet will give Beethoven’s F minor, and Alma says it will be well done —­ the conceit of the child!  We hope to have some interesting people What a shocking affair of poor Mrs. Carnaby’s!  I never knew anything quite so bad. —­ Our united kind regards.’

Harvey thrust out his lips, in an ambiguous expression, as he threw the sheet aside.  He mused before opening the next letter.  This proved to be of startling contents:  a few lines scribbled informally, undated, without signature.  A glance at the postmark discovered ‘Liverpool’.

’The children are at my last address, —­ you know it.  I can do no more for them.  If the shabby Abbotts refuse —­ as I dare say they will —­ it wouldn’t hurt you to keep them from the workhouse.  But it’s a devilish hard world, and they must take their chance.’

After a stare and a frown, Harvey woke the echoes with boisterous laughter.  It was long since any passage in writing had so irresistibly tickled his sense of humour.  Well, he must let Abbott know of this.  It might be as well, perhaps, if he called on Mrs. Abbott tomorrow, to remove any doubt that might remain in her mind.  The fellow Wager being an old acquaintance of his, he could not get rid of a sense of far-off responsibility in this matter; though, happily, Wager’s meeting with Mrs Abbott’s cousin, which led to marriage and misery, came about quite independently of him.

The last letter he opened without curiosity, but with quiet interest and pleasure.  It was dated from Greystone; the writer, Basil Morton, had a place in his earliest memories, for, as neighbours’ children, they had played together long before the grammar-school days which allied him with Hugh Carnaby.

‘For aught I know,’ began Morton, ’you may at this moment be drifting on the Euphrates, or pondering on the site of Alexandreia Eschate.  It is you who owe me an account of yourself; nevertheless, I am prompted to write, if only to tell you that I have just got the complete set of the Byzantine Historians.  A catalogue tempted me, and I did buy.’